In A New York County Jail Poem by Daniel McDonagh

The shouts from within O’Malley’s was, we’re heading down to New Jersey,
Down to see the Celtic play in the good old USA,
We were stinking drunk and legless from drinking an ocean’s worth of Guinness
Plus a wee chaser or two of Potcheen and Irish whiskey.

McCann, he was the man, when he brought his transit van
And we stumbled and fell in with a case of beer upon our shoulder,
We sang passing through Toronto, through Mississauga and through Oakville
Knowing the beer had to be drunk before we reached the border.

While traveling to Niagara, we listened to a few ballads sung by O’Hara
Who sang of martyrs that Ireland will never, ever forget,
From the side window of the van, we hung out flags of Celtic & Ireland
While Flynn, he cursed the Rangers while he slept.

The game plan by McCann, how God loves a sober man,
Was to make our way down to the Irish town of Kearney,
Were we would travel to the Meadowlands via a NYC taxi
After an hour or two on 334W.46th street sitting in O’Flaherty's.

But our journey to the States turned out to be a nightmare
As we were detained at the border by a Homeland Security Officer
Whom we accompanied into the sitting room of immigration
As he read our lives story on his fancy Dell computer.

There was a warrant for O’Hara for the theft of a Mercedes motor
A warrant for Flynn for breaking his parole, once again,
McCann sat in silence, with a pair of rosary beads in his hand
For he knew he would be deported back home to Ireland.

While I passed through customs, I hitched a ride to New Jersey
For my mission to see the Celtic play, could and would not fail,
I sat in the Meadowlands cheering on the bhoys in green
While my three mates sat in the comfort of New York County jail.

July’2006